


A Time and a Place

by Dana



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst and fluff and eventual smut, Christmas, Established Relationship, Gene's a bit of a grouch, M/M, Post-Series, Sam's a bit of a... well you'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9052981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: It's supposed to be no big deal, what they do on Christmas.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Posted for days 24 and 25 of the yearly advent calender at the **lifein1973** lj comm (where it was originally posted in two parts, but that's not necessary here on AO3).
> 
> From the moment I started this story, I had a clear idea of what I wanted to do with it and I pretty much think I nailed it. It was fun to write, and I'm pretty dang pleased with how it turned out, and I hope if you read it that you enjoy it, that it imparts a bit of holiday joy <3<3<3 This is a grab-bag of a story, and has fluff, smut, a dash of casefic, the works!
> 
> Endless thanks go to **Loz** for the wonderful beta, as well as all the hand-holding in general, and all of her picky-pain dedication ;) ♥

'You're a real bastard, Gene Hunt.'

Gene, sat in his chair, legs crossed and feet propped up on his desk, smirks as Sam makes his entrance, doesn't even bat an eyelash. More than anything, he's amused by Sam's greeting, what with Sam only sounding half as serious as he usually does (so, mildly serious, and that's no cause for concern). 'That's what the journos call slander, my dear Gladys – it's defamation of my very good and noble character, and I'll not stand for it.'

Sam chokes back a laugh, the prick. 'I'll talk to Jackie about having my statement published,' he snaps back, but he's cheerful as all hell as he grins, a little wild-eyed, advancing into the room. 'Then it can be libel.'

Gene snickers, and Sam grins. He's carting a brown leather bag along with him, slung over his shoulder. He hefts it up and the smell of something absolutely delicious – definitely bacon – wafts through the smoke and grime-tinted air and Gene's stomach gives a low growl of approval. 'You ask any of my officers – well, other than yourself, of course – and they'll bloody well set you right: I'm a perfect saint.' And Sam, as if he hadn't already reminded Gene what a sarky little git he can be, rolls his eyes as he sets the bag down, pulls the thing open with both hands, taking a peek inside.

'So what you mean to say is, I'm the one with my head stuffed up my arse – like always.'

'Bingo.' Banter with Sam has its ups and downs – rather like Sam himself, actually – but Gene's more interested in the contents of bag. He wonders what other goodies Sam has packed inside – it's Sam, and he's got his picky-pain standards. Unless he's in one of those moods of his where he feels like being disgustingly healthy (and he's likewise decided to take that mood out on Gene), they've _got_ to be good. Sam does seem to like to take the very best care of him, especially if he's also taking care of himself. It isn't even that Sam cooks better than his missus had, only that, as Sam has warmed up to him, and Gene has done the same in return, he likes to take more risks.

And no, that's not just to do with the food.

Gene swings his legs down and pulls the chair a little closer in, elbows coming down hard on the desktop as Sam hums thoughtfully, rummaging about the contents of the bag. 'It's not like I did something completely unforgivable, like kick you to the kerb while it was pissing down.' Only putting it that way, it's almost as if Gene's admitting to _some_ sort of guilt, and that's certainly not on the agenda. 'Anyhow, what's for brekkie?' The way Gene looks at it, if Sam's willing to feed him, well, he can't really be all that angry with him, right?

Sam sits, and gives Gene one of those _looks_. It's a bit prickly, with just a hint of sadness, and manages to sum him up perfectly bloody well, what with Sam being such a sodding girl. Still, it's not that Gene's wanting, or even close to _willing_ , to admit guilt, though there's an itch beneath his collar that he doesn't want to call regret. 'Is that Gene-talk for Merry Christmas?'

Sam's acting like he's been inconsiderate, and Gene's done nothing of the sort, though he's suddenly sure – crystal clear, even – that if Sam were giving him any of these excuses, it'd definitely be an example of 'the lady doth protest too much'. But this is Gene here, so it's certainly not that. Sam sighs, gives a sulky little shake of his head, lower lip jutting out slightly, the softest of pouts.

'Well, merry Christmas to you too, Tyler – now, what's for brekkie?'

One eyebrow twitches up, a crinkle of bemusement across his face – as if, for certain – this time, definitely – Gene couldn't be real. 'Egg and bacon butties, which _would_ have been something fancier if you hadn't skipped out early.' Sam's reaching back into the bag now, but now he's frowning, putting emphasis on each of his words.

'I did nothing of the sort,' Gene says, frowning right back at him as Sam passes one wrapped package over to him. It's still warm. He glances back at Sam, wary with apprehension. 'You said it was no big deal, what we did on Christmas.'

That look of his sharpens, what with Sam all edges and hard right angles, and his lips press together into an equally thin, tight line. 'We already planned on working, I just thought we could have a nice morning – so sue me, alright? I woke up, all by myself, in _our_ bed, on _Christmas_.' His voice had grown a bit louder, and Sam frowns, pauses, visibly forcing himself to calm down. 'At first I thought, oh, _Gene's just downstairs_ , but no, I got up, the house was empty, your coat was gone, and so was the car. I knew exactly where you'd be, and not just because I'm a detective. You're helplessly obvious, as well as stubborn as a mule, and I...' He stops abruptly, all but jerking his jacket off before tossing it onto the back of his chair. 'I know it's not exactly your favourite day of the year, but I'd still expected a bit more.'

'Now you're just acting stroppy. It's your own bloody fault for taking it so personally, you're not even a particular fan of the holiday.' Now he's only trying harder to make those excuses, and Sam must know that he knows, so Gene shrugs. 'Look, Sam, I know this is going to be hard for you to swallow but it isn't all about you – the criminals aren't going to rest, not even for Christmas. For them, it's just the same as any other day.'

'You're right about that, but the statistics do vary from year to year.' Sam gives a little sigh, shaking his head, heading off into (what turns out to be) a ramble, sunk back into his seat and looking a little less on edge. 'Sometimes, you have to work on Christmas – I get that, I've done it before... God, the effort we both put into getting Maya's mum to agree to let me come over that once, and then it turns out I was needed at the office... it was a good thing I went in, cause after the work we put in that day, we had that bastard Watson on remand, so really, it was well worth it...' He straightens up, a flicker of shame in his eyes. 'It wasn't as if Maya's mum was all too fond of me anyway, but after that 'stunt' she avoided talking to me for seven whole months.' He laughs, rubs at his cheeks, gone a bit pink. 'And that's not even the point, I know. We _both_ had to work this time, there's still no reason you had to come in early. We could have slept in a bit, had a nice breakfast, maybe opened a few of the presents...'

'Sam – '

'But no, here we are, three hours ahead of schedule, and we're eating lukewarm sandwiches.' He's finally started unwrapping his butty, though Gene's already tucked into his. 'I had _plans_.''

Gene chews, and swallows, and then, when he feels he's not at risk for choking himself, laughs. 'You and your bloody _plans_.' Gene's sure Sam would deny his control freak tendencies, especially for something as ridiculously inconsequential as this. The only decoration that Gene could stomach Sam putting up at the house was the Christmas tree – not even a full-sized one, and not until he'd got Sam to promise that he'd be the one who did the cleaning up – and Sam had set to decorating it with gusto. He'd micro-managed the placement of the tinsel and all the baubles, making sure too many of the red ones didn't end up all in one clump; it wasn't that bad looking, really, and Gene had not-quite-begrudgingly admitted it after the thing was in place. 

'Christmas comes once a year. Our first Christmas _together_ will only happen once.' Sam's not even touched his sandwich, and Gene's mostly downed his own. Christmas. 'Tis the bloody season. It's not Gene's favourite time of the year, and for all Sam's ever said about it – actually, it being Sam, he's said quite a lot, sometimes rambling, sometimes thoughtful, sometimes acting as if Gene isn't even there – if it mattered all that much to him, all he'd needed to do was say something about _that_ , and Gene would have seen they both had the day off.

'I'm starting to think you care about the day more than you've ever let on,' he says, and Sam gives a little huff, shaking his head and flicking his finger at imaginary bits of dust. 'And I repeat myself – you said it was no big deal.'

'It's not,' Sam shrugs, stubbornly sticking to the same line of reasoning. He's making about as much sense as he usually does – which never ends up being as much as Gene would like, so it's well within his usual parameters, why is he acting surprised? 'Just, all of this, us – they're important memories we're building, together.'

'I suppose so,' Gene replies, carefully, as if he's being tested.

Christmas hadn't mattered much at Gene's house, not with the moods that his dad would get into, the screaming and the shouting and the fighting that would follow. It must have put him in the mind of his own bloody childhood, memories of his own deadbeat dad and him being caught up in a downward tailspin, making all of the same sodding mistakes. He drank to cover it all up, the way his own bastard of a father had, and to say it put a damper on Gene's ability to enjoy the season, well, that was an understatement. There were hardly ever presents, though his mum did always try and get him and Stu both a new set of clothes. But time went on, and that became harder to accomplish, what with his father being his father, and the war. And his dad, well, the moods got worse, as did the drinking, as did the fists. When it was him and his wife, she spent more time at her mum's and he spent it with his mam – they were never as close as Gene had wanted, but they had never made a big issue about it. And as for Sam, he's gone on about how his mum had always been pretty frank and forthwith about the holiday – she'd ask Sam if there was anything in specific he wanted, and she'd do what she had to make sure she got it for him. Sam said it was her way for making up for the rest of the year, when things could and would often come up short. But there was hardly ever any talk about his dad, and the way Sam clams up about it when Gene gives him a poke, it's turned into the one topic where Sam simply won't budge.

Sam's eyes, attentive as most always, move from his butty, still wrapped, to the one that's mostly been devoured, still in Gene's hand. And then, as if Sam's been listening to the silence as Gene eats and he just sits there, maybe even reading his thoughts – sometimes, Gene wouldn't be too surprised, and other times, well, it really would be _nice_ – he sighs, and pushes his over. 'I'm not even hungry, here, you can eat this one too.'

Gene finishes his up and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, before setting to unwrapping the next. 'Life's not fair, you should know that already – you're a copper, after all. Look, Sam, just... we'll make up for it tomorrow, alright? And anyhow, I hope you've not forgotten that we're going round to my mam's for dinner. That should give you your fill of holiday cheer.'

Sam shrugs again, reaching back into the bag he'd brought with him and pulling out a closed Thermos – he even pulls out a couple of small plastic mugs, and Gene has to give it to him, he does think of most everything. And he smiles, looking thoughtful, because he's never met Gene's mother before, and he's said already how he's looking forward to it. Gene hopes that it's enough. If their mums had any one thing in common, it was that they tried; now that his mam's not tied down by a dead beat husband who was too loose with letting his fists fly, she really does like to go all out. He wants Sam to like her. He really hopes she likes Sam. It was one thing when it was her not liking his wife – she was never spiteful, but it was clearly a case of 'you're just not good enough for my son' – and they'd tried, the both of them, though it had always come off as strained. But Sam's his _partner_ , and for him as a copper, that means so much more.

'I know that, Guv, but that's not the point. Sneaking out like that – '

'I did not sneak out,' Gene snaps, real heat in his voice, what with how Sam's words have stung him. The tingle of heat rushes all the way through him, and Sam sighs softly, twisting the cap off of the Thermos before pouring them equal portions of hot tea. Somehow, Gene's sure it's just a moot point.

'It makes me think you really don't want to be with me, that's all.'

That's got Gene sighing too, and he shakes his head, going so far as to set his second sandwich down and reach over to give Sam's hand a firm pat-pat, snatching up his mug and bringing it over to take a drink of it, washing the egg and bacon down. 'Christ, Sam – I'd sing it from the bloody rooftop if I could, but then that would get the both of us lynched, as well as fired – you know that.' Sam nods, but he's gone tight-lipped again, and Gene's sure he could say a few more nice things – not because of guilt, though, just because he's not really the monster some make him out to be. The monster Sam sometimes makes him out to be, when he's at his worst, but Gene's seen _Sam_ at his worst too, and it's no pretty sight. This relationship of theirs hasn't been easy on either of them, though, maybe it's been more difficult for Gene – but that doesn't mean he doesn't want the best from it, and that's not just sex. So, Gene softens his expressions, his words. Oh, tough love is good enough most of the times, but he knows that – maybe, for today, for this specific issue – another approach is going to be needed.

'Look, it's nothing to get your delicates in a knot over, Tyler – I couldn't sleep, and I didn't feel like waking you up, so I got up, and dressed, and came here to sit in silence like the sad, sorry bastard I sometimes am.' He'd sat beside him for a while, actually, smoking, downed morning shot of whisky to get the blood pumping, just watching Sam as he slept, dim light leaking into the room from the hallway, where the door was ajar. He liked doing that, just watching Sam, and didn't like telling _Sam_ how he did, because it would sound too soft, too pansy, too much of something that just wasn't Gene – just more of him being a sad, sorry bastard, but not in a way that Gene could turn into a joke. 'You work too hard, and you don't sleep enough – some of that's my fault, I know, what with how I like to keep you up.'

There's a flicker in Sam's eyes, his lips twitching up at the corners, and he rests an elbow on the desktop, leans his cheek into his hand. 'You, admitting that I work too hard? I'll remind you of that one the next time you tell me and everyone else within shouting distance that I'm a lazy sod who makes you do all the footwork.'

'Chin up, Sammy-boy,' and with that, it's back to to the business of eating, swallowing down the rest of his tea. Sam, his opposite is this as well as most everything else, takes a dainty enough sip of the stuff, regarding Gene with that gaze of his that's as sharp as a fox's. 'If I didn't want to be with you, I never would have invited you into my home. And I bloody well wouldn't have asked you to my mam's.'

'Well, that's true.' Sam worries at his lower lip, and Gene runs a hand back through his hair, sighs. '...okay, point taken. I don't suppose you would work on not talking with your mouth full, huh? Or am I hoping for the impossible?' He chuckles, and what with a good portion of his tension having lessened, he reaches for his cup, takes another drink of his tea. 'Well, I guess that means I have to forgive you, what with it being Christmas and all. Lucky you.'

'Lucky indeed.' Gene's not stupid, he knows Sam won't have pushed it aside completely. He licks the grease from his fingers, and Sam gives a little huff, a shake of his head, grabbing a few serviettes out of that bag of his. 'Ta, love.'

Maybe he was being a tease, a little facetious, but it still makes Sam smile, and that leaves Gene with a warm spot inside that isn't just the food, or the tea. 'Don't think I don't know you can still be a bastard. Just... not all the time.'

'I know that, pride myself on it, even. Anyhow, you know what they say about pots and kettles.'

He smiles a few moments more, look of wonder on his face. Then, his face scrunches up as he makes a show of thinking too hard, and he lifts his hand up to glance at the time. 'There's something I wanted to give you, this morning. Only I woke up, and you were gone, and this...' He's blushing again, but he's also still smiling, radiant all over. It's so damn attractive, Gene wonders how he kept his hands to himself, regarding Sam, for as long as he'd managed. 'I wanted to give it to you in bed, but, well, here in your office also works.'

'Oh? …. _oh_.' Cause Sam's up, has sauntered – an actual saunter, those sharp hips of his swaying in a way that could only be called _mesmerising_ , around the desk, fingertips trailing across the slick looking wooden finish, biting at his tongue, eyes fixated on Gene's. There's a certain way he looks at Gene, like he's ready to eat him up, make him beg Sam to hurry the hell up and get started so he can _finish him_ already. It's too bloody obvious what Sam's got planned for him, oh, Sam and his _plans_.

Gene swallows slowly, his throat gone tight. 'Are you sure this is a good idea?'

Sam smirks, tilting his head a little to the right. 'You never think any of my ideas are good, so why should that matter?'

'...Sam.'

Sam smiles softly, stood before him. He takes hold of Gene's tie with one hand as he leans in, closer, and Gene – gripping the arms of his chair with all the strength he has – hears the whole thing creak as he pushes himself halfway to standing. 'Kiss me,' Sam says, as good a command as Gene's ever been given.

And he does, rushing upwards out of the chair, catching Sam in his arms and shoving him back to the desk. There's a distant clatter, perhaps the click of plastic hitting the floor, Sam jerking hard on his tie as their tongues wrangle for dominance. Sam's eyes have lost some of their sharp attentiveness as he draws back, fingers still wound about Gene's tie. He sighs, a soft flutter of breath, heat against Gene's cheek as he palms at the growing erection in Gene's dress-slacks. 'I want to hear you begging me to let you come – I want to see you gloriously undone,' he whispers, licking Gene's cheek. Gene groans – he can't help himself – thrusting up into Sam's touch, even as Sam pulls back.

'And you say I'm the bastard,' Gene whispers back at him, heat rushing down his neck. 'I thought this was a gift.'

'Yeah,' and Sam gives another tug on his tie, smirking, lashes at half mast. 'It is.' But the thing is, it's not just something that Sam's going to give him – Gene's suddenly sure that this is the sort of gift that's meant to be shared.

–  
–

They're short-handed but crime really doesn't take holidays (it pays a lot more attention to adverse weather conditions, Sam had said with a sigh, but there was no snow on the menu, not even rain); what Gene was hoping would be a slow day quickly goes south. Oh, it started off nicely enough (that was him putting it lightly, really): the breakfast with Sam, the afters that had followed, that had all just gone just swimmingly. Not that Gene's lists of partners are all that long – and yes, the others were all birds – but Gene's never known anyone like Sam, who could make such an occasion of something so simple as a blow-job. Only, it being Sam, there was nothing simple about it, not the way he drew it out, the sounds he'd make, the looks he'd give, making it out as if he liked the act of _giving_ more than Gene could possibly enjoy that of receiving. He hadn't even needed Gene to sort him out at the end – that could come later, Sam had said, and Gene knew it was a promise, implicitly given. He seemed lighter by far as he left the room, first reminding Gene not to be a lazy sod about working through his backlog of paper-work.

There was a shout at half-nine, and Gene had barely made a dent in the stuff – but there was a pair of dead bodies at one of the area's fancier hotels, and there really were only so many coppers available to attend. A couple of plods were on scene first, questioning the staff and few other guests. Sam got them to brief him as soon as possible – what could have just been a simple burglary was anything but that, and it had gone terribly wrong. Yes, there was a pair of dead bodies – a businessman from the other side of the city, and one of those high-rate hookers that looked like she was play-acting like a high-class lady. There were three bullets spent between the two of them, and a blood-splattered hotel-room that forensics needed to pick through.

Oh, yeah – there was also ten grand in large bills stuffed in a suitcase, along with a figurative tonne of cocaine.

The air's a bit on the chilly side, though the winter has been a dry one. Sam's ears and the tip of his nose have both gone rosy; but they're standing outside the hotel while Sam finishes up his talk with that pair of officers, though Gene's close enough to hear most of what they've been saying, all he had to do was focus his attention that way. But he gazes at the cordon, at the people gathered on the other side of it. It's Christmas, shouldn't they all have better things to do? He scowls at them, not that any of them turn and scurry off, and he pulls his cigarettes out from the inside pocket of his coat, lights up the third one.

Sam's got his notepad in one hand, scribbling down notes as the pair of plods he's talking to rattle on about the information they'd been able to gather so far, and no, there wasn't anything too suspicious afoot, other than the fact that there was a pair of dead bodies, the cash and the drugs. Forensics, a skinny little bloke with too many curls and blotchy cheeks (who was no bloody Oswald), was having a look about upstairs, but other than what was off, it seemed to be a mundane enough crime. He felt like a sap, knowing he missed the rest of his team, the usual suspects. They were far more reliable, for the most part, not this pair of plods that Gene doesn't even know. But Cartwright was doing Christmas with her parents and her extended family, the way she always did, and Ray and Chris were hoping to wow their new birds with a Christmas day bonanza, one that hopefully wouldn't end with a burned down house.

Sam nods, and asks a few questions in return, makes a few more notes, and Gene tries not to think about his kisses, his touch, the little sounds of pleasure he makes when he's driving Gene wild, because it's just not the right time, really.

With a grunt of irritation, Gene tosses his cigarette aside and looks up to see Sam picking his way over to where he's standing, notepad in hand. 'Well,' Gene says, 'what did the Dynamic Duo have to say?'

'Mr White was a businessman, and ironically, he was really fond of snow.' Gene frowns, because that's the last thing he needs, for Sam to go off one of his spells. Sam gives a little shake of his head. 'Sorry, cocaine, I was talking about the cocaine... it's white, and they call it snow, and...' Sam sighs, rattling on. 'Whoever shot him and the escort didn't seem too concerned with the satchel of goodies stuffed in his suitcase, but I suppose it does bear mentioning that she was shot twice, and him only once.'

'So, no theft – just murder. Maybe an unhappy wife, or the prozzie's angry spouse? Though if that were the case, I bet they'd have unloaded a few more rounds into the bastard.'

'Perhaps.' Sam's flipping through his notes. 'I've got WPC Tracker looking to see if Mr White's got any family to come claim him, but we've had no luck so far; but he's local enough, they could just be out of the city for the holiday. We need to identify the woman as soon as we can...'

'That should be easy enough – didn't the tart have a handbag?'

Sam's eyes narrow at him and shakes his head, probably taking one issue or another with Gene's choice of words. 'No. But who knows, maybe it was stolen?'

'Maybe.' Gene sighs, ready for another cigarette, a whole bottle of scotch. 'I don't suppose we could be lucky, someone heard the shots, there was an eye-witness?'

Sam nods, bites at his bottom lip. 'Well, the occupant of the room opposite heard the shots – three of them, said there was a bit of delay between the second and the third. She says it was just after five in the morning, she'd been up already having her tea. Said she called the front desk but says there was no answer, but she didn't check on it herself.' He shakes his head. 'She did look out the peep-hole, saw someone hurrying away to the right, but there's no way she could make that person out... I mean, it was too blurred. And she didn't have her glasses on. And I think I'm getting a headache, this day could not get any more perfect than this.'

'And the staff?'

'No one was actually seen exiting the building.' Sam shrugs. 'Davie Smith is the clerk's name, and he doesn't remember hearing any gunshots. He also doesn't remember getting any calls from guests at that time, but one of the maids who worked overnight says he's got a habit of falling asleep on the job; they don't actually have a lot of guests right now. I mean, it's Christmas.'

'Yes, you don't have to mention it again, Gladys, we all know what the day is. And the other guests, the rest of the staff?'

'PCs Flaherty and Collins are back to taking statements now that they've finished talking with me, but you already know what they said: no one has acted too suspicious, and it's just the two of them, they're doing all they can do. Depending on how things go here, perhaps we'll only have a half-dozen interviews awaiting us once we're back at the station, though if we're very, _very_ lucky, those can be postponed until tomorrow.' There's an edge of soft bitterness to the laugh that follows.

'Great, just great. That's sure to help us solve this mess of a mystery.' Where where were the mafia when you needed them? It was Christmas day – for all it mattered to Gene, and really, it doesn't matter much – and they did tend to take the holiday season more seriously and were more respectful of these things, what with it being a holy day and all. 'It doesn't make one lick of sense, killing the both of them and leaving the suitcase. We're missing something, but what could be it?'

'Could be our killer is a complete imbecile, or maybe he was just mental – might make it easier to find him, what a nice present that would be.' Sam slides the notepad into an inner pocket, smile warm. 'Come on, there's no point in us talking to forensics until he's had a proper look around the room. How about we do some canvassing of our own?'

'Only people we're going to find out are sorry, sad souls like the lot of us, with nowhere to go on Christmas day.' But he's turned and fallen into step with Sam, heading away from the hotel and the cordon and the gaggle of onlookers, shoved his hands into his pockets. Sam is close now, so much so that their elbows bump together. Gene's not even why he mentioned that last bit, other than it needing to be said – what with Sam practically bringing it up every other sentence.

'We can pop by the house after that, if you'd like? Have a bit of lunch, each of us open one of the presents?'

'You and the presents, you sound like a little lad.' And Gene can't help it, he's smiling too, Sam's practically beaming.

'Sorry, just, I really like what I picked out for you, that's all. I think you'll like it too.' He frowns a little. 'I didn't eat breakfast, alright? I could do with a bit of lunch right now.'

'Well, better keep your appetite for when we get to my mam's. You'll not feel like eating for the rest of the month, once you've sat at her table.'

Sam chuckles. 'You know, I'm looking forward to that. Just, not even an apple?'

'Sammy-boy, no means no.'

There's just been a twinkle in Sam's eye, and Gene's fighting down the feeling – sudden and certain, as inescapable as anything else, as wide and bright as Sam's cheery smile – that Sam really is, in all truth, fond of the holiday, and has compromised for Gene's sake, in ways that not even his wife would have done. But then, who else could Sam be spending his time with, if not with Gene? Something else bubbles up – it's irritation, pure and simple, how bloody daft of Sam to do something like that (about as daft as Gene being unable to face him that morning, it being their only _first_ Christmas together, ever) – and as they round the corner onto the little street that runs along the canal, he opens his mouth to give Sam a (perhaps unwanted) piece of his mind (that's just the way it tends to go, with the two of them). The loud ping of a bullet ricocheting off brick knocks those words from his mouth, a jolt of shock going through him – there's cold dust thrown up into the air, and Gene acts without thinking, bodily throwing himself at Sam and knocking him to the ground.

There's a few other shots and Gene's heart is racing along like like a bloody locomotive, and beneath him, Sam's eyes gone wide, his cheeks a bit pale. Gene jerks his head up just in time to see the crazy bugger who'd fired running round another corner, dark jacket whipping in the wind. He pushes himself up, all charged up and ready to bolt, but Sam moves faster, scrabbling to his feet and he's off like a rocket. If he's running, he can't have been shot. If Gene's doing the same thing, well, surely he's just as lucky.

–

By the time Gene gets to him, Sam's caught up to the shooter and has knocked him to the ground, has scuffled with him, has yanked his hands back and is slapping on the cuffs. ' – will be taken down and may be given in evidence. In other words, you're nicked.'

Gene smirks, liking that Sam's not going easy on the bastard – he's got that wild eyed look about him again, the one he'd worn first thing that morning, and it's good to know that for all Sam's taught Gene about policing, Gene's taught him a few in turn – only that's when the running catches up with _him_ , and Gene braces his shoulder against the wall to support himself, tries not to look too obvious about needing it. When Sam looks up, he and Gene make extended eye-contact, and a slow smile spreads across Gene's face – there's a twist in his belly, sudden and sharp, but with Sam showing there, dust on his cheek and not a single show of blood on him, he's sure it's from relief.

'Now now, just what do we have here, DI Tyler?'

Sam smiles, makes a show of it, and gives the bloke a nice shake. 'We've not introduced ourselves yet, sorry, Guv – I was hoping our new friend would start things for us; so, now that DCI Hunt's here, how about you tell us your name?'

A flash of Sam's often hidden vicious streak shows as he quickly jerks the man to his feet, teeth bared as he grimaces. Gene spots the gun on the ground, just a few yards off, where Sam had kicked it away from him, no doubt. He pushes away from the wall, what with his breathing mostly under control, and he saunters over, thankful for having his gloves on as he picks the thing up. Just knowing Sam, he'd surely have complained, and even Gene's not a complete nitwit when it comes to ruining prints.

'So, what's your name? And don't tell me, you've got to have something to do with the blood-show down the block – hrm,' and he steps up close, looming in the bastard's face, who startles away. 'Now I've got a good look at this one's face, I'm sure I saw him before.

'Back at the hotel? There was the crowd gathered outside.'

Gene nods, and the bloke's jaw tenses up, his eyes widening with fear.

'Right you are, DI Tyler – he was back behind the cordon, with the rest of the onlookers.' The bloke jerks about but Sam does Gene proud, keeps a tight hold on him, and Gene tucks the gun away into his waistband before. He smirks, widely, for added effect, and Sam's smiling at him, looks like he's trying not to laugh.

'Come on, don't act so bloody daft,' Gene taps one finger against the fellow's forehead, causing him to flinch, 'you discharged your weapon on a pair of sodding police officers – that was right stupid of you, sunshine, and it's supposed to be Christmas – so what I think is, you need to start talking, and you need to be quick.'

The bloke's eyes have gone wide, his cheeks white with increasing panic. He's still not talking, and it's bloody well starting to get on Gene's nerves. 'So, is that how you want to play it? Cause I know exactly what to do with bastards like you...'

He pauses, though, one hand balled into a tight fist, and now Sam's giving him another one of those _looks_ of his. All signs of amusement have been wiped away, left with something sharp and stern. If there were words in accompaniment, it's obvious enough what they'd be: don't take it too far, don't do something we're both going to regret, though what he does end up saying is a very firmly stated 'Gene, be careful'.

It's Sam calling him by his name, not _Guv_ , that makes it clear just how serious Sam is being, but it also makes it clear to Gene just how far they have come, how much he has changed since Sam first sashayed into his department and Gene had to throw the poncy newcomer into that filing cabinet. It's respect, and most importantly, Gene knows it goes both ways – and it's Christmas anyhow, so why not play it a little soft? So he gives a quick nod in return and goes back to grinning at their suspect.

So – because it's Gene being careful, not Gene forgoing violence all the way – only has to hit the nutter once before he crumples and ends up spilling his guts. By the end of it, he's half-sobbing, more than just half-rambling, but the good news is, at least they have some working idea as to what has gone down.

It was meant to be a simple burglary, he knew about the businessman, the money, though the drugs had come as something of a surprise – that the businessman was actually an old friend of his, one who'd struck it rich where all his own luck had been run into the ground, and him and his mate from the mill had come up with a plan. It so happened that the bird had been an ex of his mate's, and that was another surprise – and he was still sweet on her – not that he, who'd been behind the whole stunt, had known – and when his mate had seen them together, he'd gone absolutely mad with rage. There was some shouting, him trying to calm the other down, but there was just no doing it and they ran out of the building in their panic, though his mate had grabbed the bird's handbag on his way off; and that was after he'd shot the both of them of course, he hadn't even known about the gun! They'd forgot to grab the suitcase in their hurry – simple enough. Roger, well, he was just going back to claim it, his mate was taking it real hard, realising what he'd done to the bird; then he saw that the hotel was cordoned off, that the coppers were there, well, he needed to beat a trail back to his mate, talk it all out, only then he saw Gene and Sam heading his way... well, he panicked, again. And with just the promise of a few more punches, he admitted where his mate – Thomas – could be found, and then Sam and Gene dragged him back to the hotel and handed him over to the plod, got on the radio and scavenged for a few others to do something with the whereabouts of his partner, and now, well, finally, Gene could breathe.

Only, as the street around them clears, Gene finds that the low buzz of panic that's been running through him since the first shot was fired has not gone away, not really gone down in the least. And looking at Sam, well, he's not the only one who's still feeling the high. Sam's cheeks are still flushed with colour, his breathing is more rapid than it should be. There's still plenty of work to do, but right now – right this instant, as Sam turns his head to look at him and their eyes lock onto each other – Gene needs to get his hands on Sam, needs to make sure he's okay.

It's clear enough he is, Gene's got two eyes in his head, but he needs to make _sure_ – touch being such an important thing, between him and Sam.

'What a day,' Sam says, whisper-soft. 'Did you have to hit him like that?' That part is louder, and he squares his shoulders off as though he's expecting some sort of unpleasant response. Because that's who they are, that's what should be expected, but Gene's already decided not to play right into his hands.

'Don't worry,' Gene huffs, 'I pulled my punch.'

'Well, I guess I should be grateful for that,' Sam says, though there's an edge to his words, a hint of reprehension, like he's gauging the weight of Gene's words – and, in doing so, smiling softly to show his approval. Gene nods, and that would be nice of Sam, really, but than Sam's moving – slowly as anything, though that might just be Gene's perceptions, twisting about and then back in on him, and Gene still needing to act – lifting his arm up, glancing at his watch. He frowns, gaze flicking over to Gene's, tight with concern. 'So, now we've got the rest of it sorted, about us going round your mum's – '

Gene acts, honestly, without much thought, because the only thing that matters right now is grabbing hold of Sam. His hand clamps about Sam's wrist, Sam's eyes going round with surprise, and he follows along as Gene moves away from the main street, down a darkened side alley. Once it's black enough, he spins Sam round and throws him back against the wall, with perhaps a bit more force than he'd intended. 'Sorry,' he says, heart still pumping too hard, hairs standing straight at the back of his neck. 'Just, I'm going to have some words with you, Tyler – you're not allowed to get shot on Christmas day; it's very bad form.'

Sam's eyes narrow, his mouth tightens into a frown. 'Just as easily could have been you who got shot, and if you somehow missed it, we're both okay. Guv, you need to – '

You need to calm down is _not_ what Gene needs to hear, and he grabs hold of Sam's lapels, jerks him up onto his tiptoes, slams his mouth down with all the force of a punch. Sam grunts into it, and Gene's sure he tastes blood, but he goes on kissing Sam, and Sam opens up beneath it. There's hands on his chest, his shoulders, one tightening in his hair, the other gone to the back of his neck.

It starts abruptly, and that's just the way it ends. Sam gasps, tonguing at his lower lip, his eyes gone extra dark. 'Really, it's nothing to get your delicates in a knot over, Guv.'

And Gene could kiss him again, or punch him in the gut, but he chuckles, throat gone tight, Sam having turned his words back on him, neatly as all that. Sam leans in, and Gene presses his forehead close, closes his eyes as Sam strokes his hair with one hand, caresses his cheek with the other.

'We're alright,' he says, and Sam murmurs, _mhmm_.

Gene looks at him, carefully. There's enough light to make out the bruise on his jaw that he'd not seen before – that bastard Roger must have fought back when Sam was apprehending him, of course, though Sam had come out on top – and Gene tugs Sam's arm over so he can grip at both his wrists with just the one hand, lowers the other to run his fingers up over Sam's face, lightly stroking across the dark splotch that is just starting to show. He's bruised Sam's face before – it's just a matter of fact, between them, and Sam's a ponce at times but he's got a mean left-hook – but there are rules, now, and there are things that are allowed, some other things that are strictly taboo. Gene can hit Sam, or Sam can hit Gene – well, not that they've needed that, of late. They've worked out a much better system for sorting their tensions out when all of the shouting and the bickering and the bantering get to be too much.

'You're okay?'

A nod. 'Yeah, you?' Another nod.

'Sure an' all, but we've had worse. I hope you gave that bastard a good kicking while you were getting him into the cuffs.'

'Well, he did put up a good fight; got a few kicks back at me, but nothing I couldn't handle.' Sam's smirking now. 'You know, bad is allowed to be bad – it doesn't always have to be a competition, okay?' And then, as his lashes drop down and he closes his eyes, Sam smiles softly, heat straining in Gene's trousers. 'Kiss me,' he whispers, his eyes shut, his cheeks paler now – the bruising, that much darker. It's not the command it had been in Gene's office, but Gene gives into it anyhow, leaning in close and brushing his mouth against Sam's, agonisingly slow.

'So, er...' and Gene blinks at him, Sam with his silly little grin.

'What?'

'Well, I was saying, it looks like we're late for dinner at your mum's... God, I miss my mobile phone.' He sighs, and it's like Gene's the one who's been punched in the gut, though he gathers his wits about himself and quickly stands up straight.

'Ah, bloody hell.' He shoots a quick look at his watch, and he hates it a little bit more than he normally does, seeing that Sam is right.

–

It's the worst possible thing that could happen, and on Christmas day of all things. But his mam, being herself, smiles when she opens the door, thought the uncertainty of it all runs like ice down Gene's spine; the thing is, he hates disappointing her, and it's too bloody easy to do just that, because he's his father's son, because he's a copper, because all the world's out to get him, at times. 'Gene,' she says, opening her arms wide. 'So good to see you, you do need to try and stop by more often – Merry Christmas.' He always forget what good hugs she gives until he's getting one again, and he folds his arms about her, careful yet tight. He visited her more when things were going down the drain with his missus, both of them seeking the solace of their mother's homes when they'd been unable to face each other. He kisses her wrinkled cheek, and her eyes light up as he steps back, turning to look at Sam.

'And you must be Samuel.'

'Sam,' he says, with a wry twitch of his lips. 'It's very good to meet you, Mrs Hunt – Merry Christmas.'

'Oh, now, lad, I'll have none of that,' and she pulls Sam into a hug – his eyes go a little wide, but he gives into the embrace, wrapping his arms about her in return; and that's a very good start, because Sam's not always the most huggable bloke. 'You call me Emma, and I can call you Sam. Merry Christmas.'

She lets him go, though Sam's the one who seems to linger, looks much happier than he normally does, though it's tinged with a sort of bittersweet sadness. No big surprise, that, what with his own lack of a relation with his mum, and Gene's heart skips a bit. 'Come in, my lads, come in – now, I've just got to check on dinner, Gene, you know where to find the glasses – mind your self and wash your hands first, though. Oh, my goodness – you've not been fighting, have you?'

'Mam – ' Gene groans, running a hand across his face, because she's frowning at him now, and it's not even his fault.

There's a chuckle to his right. 'I got punched in the face earlier today while I was in the process of apprehending a suspect.' Sam smiles as he says it, and Gene's mam tuts sharply, takes him by the arm and pulls him inside. He leaves out the part about them being shot at, and Gene appreciates that bit – he'll have to thank him for it later, they'd never hear the end of it. He closes the door, starts to unbutton his coat.

'Alright then – Gene, glasses. Sam, you get comfortable, I'll not be long.' She smiles, warm and sweetly, and Sam smiles back at her as she turns about, goes down the hall towards the kitchen.

'I wasn't really... expecting such a pleasant greeting, really,' Sam says, voice a bit tight, a glimmer of something wet about his eyes. He coughs, clears his throat, reaches up to dash a hand across his face. He nudges Gene with an elbow, smile going wider. 'She's aggressively charming, I see where you get it from.'

'Sarkiness will get you nowhere,' Gene grunts in reply, rolling his eyes. But Sam's shaking his head, looks as sincere as could be.

'I mean it, Gene. Now, you go get the glasses.' He smirks, fingers brushing against the back of Gene's hand. 'I've been told to go get comfortable, I'd best get to it.'

–

'I'm sorry I've not been visiting.' He leans down, kisses his mam on the cheek. 'Do you forgive me?'

'You brought your Inspector over, finally.' She smiles back at him, pats his hand. 'I'll forgive you most anything, you know that. Oh, can you fetch the cranberry sauce from the fridge? And set the pies out, that too.'

'He's half alright, I guess,' Gene replies, first dealing with the assortment of mince pies (and knowing his mam, there's Christmas pudding, to boot) before turning towards the fridge. As he turns back to her, bowl of cranberry sauce in hands, his mother gives him a look, the magical sort that most of them seem to have; honestly, though, the only one that's ever mattered has been hers. 'Just glad you seem to like him more than you ever did Helen.'

She laughs, bends down to check on the oven. 'Well, she never did make you smile; it's not that I didn't like her, just...' She shrugs, but there's no sign of flippancy in her voice, just the hard truth. 'Since you've arrived, you've done nothing but.' She straightens up, pats her hands down her apron. 'You think I don't see it, but I do.' And he doesn't, really, want to know _exactly_ what she means. 'It was hard on the both of you, the marriage – but that's just how it goes sometimes, isn't it?' They've had this talk before, well, most of it – sometimes, you marry because you think it's love, only the love's not enough. 'Maybe I didn't make it easy for her either, but I wanted my lad's happiness more than anything else, so...' Because she's lost so much, made so many bad choices of her own, said goodbye to her husband and her older son within the span of just one year. 'This must be much easier on you, having such a good friend as your deputy.'

He blushes, a little, fidgets with his top button. 'Mam – '

'Cause you're the sheriff, aren't you, my lad? And I _know_ you.'

He smiles, and she gives his cheek a pat. 'Now, could you be a dear, go and make sure the table is set?' She could get him to do most anything, really, giving him that look, asking him in that way. 'And Sam, check in on him, make sure he's got plenty to drink.'

He chuckles, feeling better than he'd expected to, but he'd really meant it when he'd told Sam he'd get his fill of holiday here – whether or not it was wanted, that really had nothing to do with it. 'Yes, mam.'

–

'Oi,' Gene growls, but his tone is teasing. He's carrying two glasses along with him as he enters the lounge. 'Me mam told you to get comfortable, just what do you think you're up to? Lounging about, when you ought to be relaxing.'

'I'm pretty sure those two things actually mean the same thing, but whatever. I've just been admiring the tree.' Sam grins, holds both his hands up, and there's just no denying it, he's got no shame. He'd been standing by the tree, it and its neat, shining baubles, the brightly glowing lights. 'What, have I done something wrong? Don't tell me, does this mean I'm going onto your naughty list, Guv?'

'Right you are, Sammy-boy. No sweets for you, just a few lumps of coal and a lovely new birch switch to tan your naughty hide.'

'I like it here,' he says, gesturing about the room, ignoring Gene's statement with as great a deal of aplomb as he usually reserves for work-related issues. 'Your mum's got a good eye for the decorations, and it helps that the walls aren't an abysmal shade of green and orange and brown. Just, look at the tree.' His smile stretches wider, a bit of childish delight shining out brightly. 'It's beautiful.'

'What you mean to say by that is, she knows not to put too many red baubles all in one clump?' He thinks about setting their glasses down on the coffee table, but goes over to Sam instead, handing him the one and keeping the other for himself. 'Cheers,' he says, the tink of glass against glass. Sam smiles, lashes fluttering as he takes a drink of his wine.

His cheeks burn with colour as the alcohol runs through him. 'Ah, that's nice.'

'Glad you approve.'

'Once we get home, we've still got plenty of Christmastime to look forward to.'

'Plenty?'

' _Plenty_. Presents. A nice lie-in. All sorts of lovely things that don't involve going to work, or having some nutter punch me in the face.' Sam chuckles, rolls his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head in wonder. 'Your mum, though.'

'My mam?'

Sam shrugs. 'She really does have an eye for the decorations, that's all – even you have to be able to see it. It's...' He bites at his lip, slowly gazes about the room, from the tree to the mantel, the sofa and all the little knick-knacks and the record player that's probably older than the two of them combined, it belonged to his grandmother. 'It's very warm and homey here. It makes me think of...' Of home, of his own mum, and the sorrow that flickers through his expression lasts only a moment, Sam shrugging and letting it roll away. 'You don't visit enough, do you? Why's that?'

Gene shrugs, trying not to go on the defensive, but the atmosphere is warm and soothing, and really, Sam's not attacking him with the question. 'Get busy, is all. It's not that I don't love me mam, she knows I do. Just... you know, being a copper. It's a full-time job.'

'Isn't it though? Cause it's not like we had to work on Christmas day, or anything like that?' Sam smirks as he says it, and Gene touches his hand lightly, smiles right back at him. He doesn't want to stop there, wants to touch Sam's cheek, trace his finger along the dark smudge of the new bruise, touch his lips, too, kiss him. He has another drink of his wine, instead, and so does Sam.

'But it's not all bad, is it?' He probably doesn't mean to say it so quietly, something ragged in his voice. But he's done it, and it's not like he can take it back.

Sam's eyebrows go up in a show of soft amusement. 'The amount of paperwork we've got to deal with tomorrow begs differently, and we've dodged the interviews for now. But... yeah, you know, even when we have to roll about in the gutters with the rest of the scum, I wouldn't have it any other way.'

'Yeah,' Gene says, knowing they're going to have their good days, the bad, the bloody worst ones ever – but, knowing that Sam's his partner, that Sam's in his world, that makes it much better than, by any rights, it should. 'Yeah, me too.'

–

She talks and talks and talks, notes when Sam shies away from one subject and moves on to another – she'd brought up his family, and he wouldn't open up about it, not even for her – but his mam knew when to move on. She had him smiling in a flash, having asked him what it was like, working with Gene – and Gene's blushing brightly as she adds, 'you must have a heart of gold and the patience of a saint, dealing with him day in and day out.'

'He's been a good influence, for the most part. I've taught him a few things, myself.'

His mam laughs at that, gestures to Gene. 'He's enjoying the wine, son, you make sure to keep it topped off.'

He does, with a nod, not just because she's told him to, but because Sam's nodded as well, saying 'please do', though Gene's being careful of how much he drinks, and how quickly, dreading the day he wakes up and is told he's just like his father was, a monster and a brute. 'He's a good man, my Gene,' says his mam, and his heart tightens, so does his throat.

'Mam – '

'It's the truth. You can't hide it from me, I know you too well.'

The spread is delightful (he'd been right about the Christmas pudding, of course) – she always does go all out, and it warms him, inside and out – but, more than anything, he's enjoying just how bloody much _Sam_ is enjoying it, and Gene's reminded, yet again, about what a sodding poor liar Sam is. He should have got the memo that morning, what with how Sam had been hinting at it – and with their close call that day, he's not angry at him for lying about it, even for such a sodding simple thing. And anyhow, it's not like Sam couldn't have chosen to stay angry with him, what for how he acted that morning. Gene had his excuses, they were plentiful, but if he could take it all back, redo it all, oh, he'd have kept Sam in bed just as long as he possibly could.

His mam, much to Gene's delight, makes sure Sam's plate stays full, commenting – with an eye that's mostly critical, but also loving, in that way that only a mother can accomplish – that he's got too little meat on him, he really does need to do as Gene does more often. Sam blushes harder, cheeks likely aching as he grins and grins and grins.

Gene slants a smirk at him, and Sam huffs out a laugh as he loads up his fork, almost always so good at doing as he'd been told.

–

Sam drinks a little more than he should have, he ends up saying, what with the adrenaline rush from earlier in the day; they're in the lounge, Gene's mam having commented saying she wished they'd been there in time for the Queen's speech, and Sam finishing off another glass of wine. He's giggling by half-six, snoring on Gene's shoulder fifteen minutes later, paper crown from the Christmas crackers tilted to a dangerous angle on his head; Gene's mam gives him a sharp look, one that's edged with something _knowing_ – but it wasn't like Gene was looking at Sam any more or less fondly than he ever did, that he'd said scathing things along with the kind, that his mother doesn't know him better than most other people in the city, let alone the room.

'I'm sad to say, I've had to turn the spare room into storage space – after the new year, you and your lad, you ought to come by and help with the cleaning, there's plenty I want to send out to charity.' Gene's blood goes cold, then hot, but his mother smiles. 'But the bed in your room is plenty big, if you don't mind sharing it – that should be no problem, should it? Otherwise, you'll have to sleep on the couch.'

'Mam – '

'Cause it wouldn't be right, would it? Letting your guest sleep on the ruddy thing, today of all days.' Her eyes twinkle at him, and Gene forces a smile – really though, since it's his mam he's gifting it to, it's not that hard to give.

–

Sam yawns, blinks up at him. He's woke up some, though not completely, and he's sagging into the sheets, almost melting into the bed-covers. 'Gene.' He smiles, not that Gene's got any reason why, but it's Sam, and he's been smiling more lately than he's ever done before, so he'll put up with that, for _that_.

'Got your boots off before I got you into bed. You feel like taking off more of your kit, you're going to have to deal with it yourself.'

He nods, snuggles his face down into the pillow, yawns again as he stretches. 'Guess we're staying the night?'

'Sharp as a tack, that you are.' Gene smiles down at him, really can't stop himself. He tosses his shirt onto the back of the bedside chair, pulls his vest off next. Sam's rolled onto his back, unbuttoning his shirt and wriggling out of it, doing the same with his vest beneath. Gene throws the rest of his kit onto the seat of the chair, sliding into bed in just his pants.

'This your room?' Sam asks, giving up on undressing now that he's got to his trousers. Gene nods, quirks an eyebrow at him.

'Yeah? You got a problem with that?'

Sam peers at him from the other stack of pillows, shrugs with one shoulder. It's plainly decorated, but Gene's always been a no-frills sort of bloke, even when he'd just been a child. At that time, he'd shared the room with Stu – and no, no, that's not a line of memories he feels like revisiting, not tonight. 'Don't think so. Should I?'

'Nope. Now, get some ruddy sleep, Tyler – it's back to work in the morning, I hope you've not forgotten.'

'How could I ever, with you here to remind me?' Gene goes and pulls the duvet up over him, but Sam's smiling at him like he's got some sort of great revelation at hand. Gene punches the pillow to plump it off, peers back at Sam.

'What?'

'You're happy, that's all. S'nice.' He closes his eyes, gives a soft little sigh, nuzzling down into the blankets. 'Didn't think you liked Christmas, but... I think your mum brings out the best in you.'

'Thought that was supposed to be your job, Gladys?'

Sam's expression sours, though not so badly as to be a frown. 'That's the worst, but somehow, we manage.'

'Yeah, well, s'Christmas day and all,' Gene mumbles, gives the pillow another half-hearted punch. 'I wouldn't want to upset me mam.' He pauses just a moment, because he knows just what to say, and Sam's seemingly aware of the moment, lashes lowering. 'Or you, for that matter. You don't have to act like it's no big deal, you liking the holidays. We can go all out, next year, if you'd like.' He thinks, in his own way, that's _his_ was of saying that he's sorry.

And Sam, being himself, well, he eats it right up. Sam blinks his eyes open in surprise, pushes up on one arm. 'Gene... do you really mean that?' He's looking so hopeful, and Gene smirks, reaches out and tweaks a finger across his lips, slow as anything.

'See, I knew you were hiding something. Secrets between us are unbecoming, you should know that by now.'

'Yeah, but it didn't seem like such a big deal, I didn't think there'd be much of a problem.' Sam scoots over, presses his lips to Gene before quickly pulling back, hot spots of colour on his cheeks. He strokes his hand over Gene's, but Gene quickly slip away from him. He brings Sam's hand up to his mouth, shuts his eyes and presses his lips to the back of it, Sam's hand warm and smooth to the touch. He's smiling once Gene opens his eyes again, practically beaming, and Gene gives a roll of his eyes as he smirks.

'Once we get home, well, we'll try to make the best of it, yeah? But next year... we can go all out, if you'd like.'

'I'd like that, yeah.' He starts to yawn, lifts a hand up to cover his mouth. 'Let's get some sleep already, I'm knackered.' Sam flops back down onto the pillow, snuggles in, drawing that one arm in tight, but letting Gene keep hold of the other. 'Sweet dreams, Guv.' Gene gazes at him all the while, his breathing softening, his forehead relaxing. His breathing settles into a low, steady pattern, and that's it – Sam's asleep. All that's left for Gene is to follow, so, he sets off to do just that.

–

Gene wakes with a soft snuffle, a louder groan. Sam's twisting about beside him, caught up in the throes of a nightmare, gnashing his teeth as he moans. He'd scooted closer in his sleep, mostly draped over Gene's chest as he twists about. It's bloody uncomfortable, Sam jabbing him with one of his bony elbows and kicking him in the leg. 'No, no – please, _no_.' Gene sits up enough to grab Sam's shoulder, pulling him up with him, giving him a shake.

'Wake up, Daphne,' he growls out, voice rough with sleep, 'you're having a nightmare.'

Sam jerks away right away, bolts up and then back away from him, not sure of where he is. His eyes are round and dark as bottomless pits, his cheeks paler in the gloom of early morning; he blinks a few times, remembering a few very essential things, then he's looking at Gene, and most of that panic washes away. 'Sorry,' he mutters, rubbing a hand across his eyes. He reaches up to where Gene's hand is still latched onto him, gives it a squeeze. 'Kiss me,' he says, just as softly, and it's no order now, no command, just his Sam, tired and pained. 'That should help chase the dark stuff away.'

Only, there's the slightest twitch at the corner of his lips, like he knows he's taking advantage of the situation, but Gene's glad to be taken advantage of, it's happened plenty of times before; he supposes he could see it as all being too much, of Sam not even giving him a break while he sleeps. But it feels good, being wanted. Being needed.

And touch, right now, is important, something akin to reaffirmation. He sits up fully, and Sam does too, scooting over with a soft sigh and wrapping one arm about him. Their noses brush, first, and then Sam tilts his head just so, and Gene presses their mouths together. It goes deep, fast, only that's when the speed changes, slow, slow, _slow_. Sam hums into his mouth, free hand splayed low against Gene's belly, fingers twitching against bare skin. Gene moans into it, his morning wood making itself known, and he tugs Sam closer with one arm, runs his fingers across Sam's denim-clad thigh.

'Don't stop touching me, please. Only, let's not make a mess, alright?' That's Sam, prim and prissy as anything but – and he knows it isn't an oxymoron, but maybe it's something close – since it's this new Sam that shares beds with him, who touches him the way a lover would, who kisses him and never holds back, he also loves taking risks. Because of where they are, and who does the linen round the house, it seems like the bloody best idea, ever.

'Well, that's a good idea, for once.' He breaks away, gives Sam a gentle push downwards, and Sam's eyes widen a bit as he goes down, mouth softening as he smiles. His hair is endlessly dark against the pastel floral print of the pillowcase, the flush of his cheeks heightened by the pink of his lips.

'I owe you for yesterday, don't I?' And Gene smirks, Sam's lashes are a smudge of colour against his skin now that he's closed his eyes. He's brimming with anticipation, it's full up in the air, and he shifts his hips up as Gene deals with his trousers, tugs them down. 'Why didn't you take these off last night?'

Sam smirks up at him, not that he's opened his eyes. 'Couldn't do all the work for you, now could I?'

'Like you knew we'd be doing this.' Gene huffs, lightly runs his palm over the bulge in Sam's pants, and Sam hisses, jerking up into it, and Gene pets him again, pets him until he's moaning softly and thrashing about, but this time in pleasure. He lets one arm flop across his face, obscuring his eyes, and he grabs at the rung of the headboard with the other, and a jolt of intense arousal runs down Gene's spine, pools in the pit of his stomach. 'Just, don't make too much of a fuss. Okay?'

Sam nods, thrusting against Gene's hand, sucking at his lower lip. 'Shift up again, won't you?' He does, and Gene tugs his boxers down, lets his palm glide across the silken hard heat of Sam's hard cock with the other. 'God,' he murmurs, though he's not completely sure of the reason why, other than having his hand on Sam, watching as Sam reacts, well, there's not much better than that, is there? He wraps his hand round and Sam groans softly, so softly, biting hard at his mouth not to make too much too much sound. Gene strokes his thumb from base to tip, smearing around the mess of moisture that had beaded at the top, before stroking back down again.

Sam does make a sound, a choked little gasp, as Gene bends down low, hair brushing at Sam's bare stomach, tonguing at the slit before taking Sam's prick into his mouth. 'Gene,' he says, this time softer. One of his hands takes hold of Gene's hair, but he doesn't tug, simply keeps a hold on it; he doesn't tug, because Gene's not too fond of it, and he is always, always aware. Sam thrusts up gently, so gently, and Gene takes in all of him that he can, his gag-reflex protesting but Gene forcing himself, holding it as long as he can. Sam blows his breath out raggedly, and Gene slides back upwards, both his hands braced against the bed. Truth be told, it's Sam who enjoys the giving of head – well, that's what Gene's been led to believe – and Gene's never managed half of Sam's enthusiasm. Oh, he's tried, and today, he tries harder. For all the things Sam does for him, all the little compromises that he's sure he doesn't deserve, and as Sam's breath quickens, as his hand in Gene's hair tightens, Gene can only hope he's feeling a fraction of what Sam makes _him_ feel, his mouth driving him wild.

He pulls back completely, wraps his hand round slippery flesh. 'You okay?' he asks, roughly, blows his breath out through his nose. Sam moans, nodding frantically, though it doesn't seem he trusts himself to speak. Gene gazes up the length of him, nearly struck down by the look of frank adoration – open love, and longing – in Sam's eyes, painted onto his face. Love. They've used the word, the moments had always seemed light, frivolous enough, but there's no denying the truth of it, right now, shining so darkly in Sam's eyes.

Gene swallows hard, not sure of what to do with that look, with those feelings, and then lowers himself back to his task, Sam's salty taste on his tongue, Sam heavy in his mouth. And Sam, not saying a thing, not thrusting into it, begins to shake as Gene sucks him, hollowing his mouth about him. The tremors are faint at first, growing in strength as Gene keeps his space steady. He looks sideways as he works, smiles round Sam's flesh in his mouth – Sam's eyes, shut tightly, his mouth, open as he silently gasps – and he whispers Gene's names roughly as he shakes harder, comes, and Gene swallows it all down.

A spark of fresh lust runs through Gene, and he grasps his own hard cock with a hold that's close to throttling, needing to stop himself, not wanting to come all over the sheets. He draws back, slowly, licking at his lips and wiping at his mouth. Sam, eyes gone wide again, cheeks dark with lust, sits up in a rush and pushes him down, yanking at the cloth that's in his way. 'Fuuuuck,' Gene hisses, low but meaning it, grasping at the back of Sam's head as he thrusts up, his range of his motions somewhat limited. Sam slides his hand over Gene's, pulls it away, takes him all the way down, sucking hard as he takes him in deeply, trembling, overeager. Gene closes his eyes, sees stars bursting in the darkness, blood pumping harder, the pleasure of it close to too much. Sam's clever mouth is hot and wet and tight, intense, and it's making short work of him – what with how hard he'd been from his turn at sucking Sam, how _ready_. Gene slaps a hand over his mouth so as not to ruin the moment as he comes, groaning into the heat of his palm.

Sam strokes his thigh, his belly, kisses his way upwards, Gene's salty taste on his tongue as they kiss. Gene tugs Sam into his lap, and Sam wraps his arms around him, holds on tight. He is lucky, and he knows – even, if, only by a look, by all the teasing times it's been said without it being meant – that he is loved. He caresses Sam's back, unwilling to let him go. There are some things in life that are too bloody good to be true, and Sam Tyler – for all his persnickety, picky-pain ways – is clearly amongst the best.

–

Gene wakes first. He sits up in bed, but he can't smoke, can't drink, all he can do is be a bloody sap and watch as Sam sleeping turns into Sam slowly waking up. He scrunches his nose up as he yawns, rubs a hand across his face and peers up curiously. 'Were you watching me sleep?'

Gene shrugs, leans his head back and closes his eyes. 'Might have been.'

Sam chuckles, and Gene stretches.

'Come on, I can smell brekkie,' Gene continues. 'We've got to get a move on, soon as we can – there's work to be done, and once we get home, there's presents for us to unwrap.'

Sam sits up quickly, eyes bright, leaning close to kiss him on the cheek. 'I bet you I can get dressed quicker than you can. I don't suppose you've got a spare toothbrush I can use, this 'spending the night at your mum's' thing really wasn't in any of my plans.'

And that sets Gene to laughing, warm and loud, contemplating the best way to distract Sam so he can get a head start on putting on his clothes – but the way Sam's looking at him, he's likely thinking the same thing. 'You and your bloody _plans_!'


End file.
